


State of Vulnerability

by gerank



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Body Image, Business man! Oliver, Crying, Elio moved to new york, Elio's 17 in this, Lots of Angst, M/M, More tags to be added, Oliver's sorta an asshole, Prostitute! Elio, Prostitution, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-04-18 06:59:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14207640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerank/pseuds/gerank
Summary: He doesn’t glance Elio’s way at all when he turns to walk around the row of tables, nor when he exits out the diner door onto a quiet morning street.Elio bites his lip to hide the sting of not feeling good enough.





	1. Use-able or Useless?

Elio’s beautiful like this.

“Magnifico,” a older wrinkled gentlemen coos, throwing dollars and twenty’s at him, around him. They cascade down around him like rain, like leaves flying off autumn withered trees.

Elio smirks, shallow and nasty, it’s fake but he pulls it off enough to have the old man turning pink at the tips of his ears and cheeks, nearly sputtering with the last sparks of Viagra he’s got dosed in his bloodstream.

He even runs his tongue slowly against his bottom lip and top lip for good measure, all whilst smiling. It’s exciting, sends an out of place thrill inside him, he shouldn’t like this sometimes, should always hate it if he respected himself, but he doesn’t. He soaks up all the attention, bills and compliments he receives by numerous men like a sponge, he’s a needy being. Every pore, muscle and vain itches for the validation, the midnight eyes that leech onto him for temporary entertainment, he’s their actor and he sure loves to put on a show.

The roughly fifty-ish year old grins dirtily, but in a dreamy awed way. “You’re too goddamn pretty for a boy,” he grunts, reaching a steady hand up to run his thick rough thumb across Elio’s delicate smooth skin of his chin, then caressing with two fingers the swell of his rosy red bottom lip. He’s dropped to his knees for one too many men tonight for his mouth to be anything but swollen. It’s pretty though. He likes looking at it when the nights over, he likes smiling emptily at his overwhelmingly broken appearance, all bony, red sore chapped mouth and hazy tired eyeliner smudged eyes. He’ll lean in real close to the emerald tinted mirror, focuses with blurry eyes on his messy, pulled hair, the way his curls become tangled thickly, the way his eyes don’t shine like when he woke up.

He loves it.

He stops dancing, instead carries on swaying his hips on his sultry practiced shuffle to the bed. He braces himself on the edge of the mattress, lying on his front.

“Thanks,” he croaks, sore throat and swollen from the rough treatment he’d received from a usual client, he leans in close, resting all his weight on bony wrists, his skin so doll pale that it’s almost translucent, his veins viewable and a bruise blue purple color. The motel bed creaks under the slight pressure of his petite weight, proving how used it is. He admires motels, they aren’t like hotels. Motels are never trying to prove anything, always just as dirty and grimy in clear sight instead of attempting to act classy with chic blankets and curtains. Both have had their equal share of body counts on the beds, what’s the true difference besides a customer with a wife beater on or a business tailored suit? Lastly, Elio appreciates the downcast eyes from the motel clerk instead of the skeptical judging looks he receives from the receptionists that sit in leathered chairs at niche’ hotels.

The man, Rick now that Elio’s subtly recalling his name, runs his hands across Elio’s right thigh, from bony white knees to baby pink freckled thighs. Elio hums at the sensation, watching with big eyes at Rick. He twists more towards Rick, till he’s fully facing his front, pulling a mask of false innocence as he adjusts his thin thighs till they’re just slightly parted, just tempting inviting. A tease of something to be unlocked, like a pretend that Elio’s haven’t had his thighs parted multiple times.

“Touch me, anywhere,” Elio whispers breathily, “all you want.”

Rick’s lips tug at the corners into a dirty closed smile, he’s stocky, kind of toned in a way, like he worked out a lot in his younger years. Strong shoulders that feel stiff like a rock. He’s a seven out of ten in Elio’s book. Not that Elio’s much into older men with greying hair, but the lack of yellow teeth and baldness is a winner to Elio. He’s dealt with some really rough regrettable clients.

Elio laxly lets his eyes fall shut in a sensual appreciation of Rick’s trailing hands now starting up his legs again, humming softly as the sensation turns almost ticklish with the air gracing way Rick’s fingertips slide against his moon cream skin.

Elio blinks his eyes open when Rick removes his hand, gazing under his thick natural black eyelashes at the fumbling of Rick’s hastily removal of his burgundy trousers. “Need any help with that?” Elio whispers in a tiny voice, quiet teasing is sexier to him than loud obnoxious pleas, it’s a sacred gentleness that men crave from him.

“No, I’ve got it,” Rick assures, unzipping himself with one hand whilst the other rests affirmingly on Elio’s knee. Elio runs his fingers across the hand cupping his knee, building the growing temptation the man is desperately filled with.

Elio smiles lopsidedly as Rick finally kicks his pants off completely, already going to shrug off his own loose too short t shirt, it’s plain white with a little firecracker symbol, Elio forgot where he got it, he just likes it because it’s oddly flattering, exposing his flat concave stomach and tiny hipbones.

“Let me, darling,” Rick states, gathering Elio easily, it’s easy because Elio’s amazingly thin. He showcases his jutting hip bones, ribs and poky elbows and knees proudly.

All one hundred and twenty pounds of him get scooped up into Rick’s broad grip, his body’s so used to every part of this, the foreplay, the teasing, the preparation, the fucking. It’s like reading the same book over and over but never getting tired of it because it somehow entertains you every time.

Elio’s breath catches in his throat when cool fingers ride up under his shirt, on the delicate skin of his almost non-existent love handles, ice rises from his toes to his chest to his cheeks, his tiny pink nipples taut with goosebumps poking visibly from his shirt.

“Mm,” Rick hums into Elio’s honey scented neck, the honey shampoo he’s been buying recently does magic better than any other shampoo he’s tried to use in his thick locks. Rick grips and quickly discards Elio shirt over his head, Elio drops his arms as his chest is bared to the moonlight and Rick eyes. It feels private every time even though this is a scene many men get to enjoy of Elio every week.

“Am I good for you?” Elio pouts, playful vulnerability all over him, from his Lolita glazed eyes and his bitten bottom lip to his arms behind him back, purposely widening the view for Rick to invite himself to lithe splayed thighs wrapped around Rick’s sturdy lap.

“Extremely,” Rick sighs into a groan, finally sparking with an alertness to fuck Elio, to fuck Elio now, he wraps a wiry haired meaty arm around Elio’s twenty four inch waist, carrying him over closer to the top of the bed, creating space for their bodies to be fully stretched out as he presses Elio down against the sheets quickly. He rubs his callused palm from sensitive peach nipple to the other, rubbing and pinching the little cold nubs.

Elio’s hard, for once tonight. Gentle to surprise rough is an odd kink of his. Jack was too rough earlier for Elio to do anything but choke and feel nauseous, Emilio was too placid and cheap for a first time buyer, paid for a handy only which was mind boggling disappointing because he smelt like mint and looked like a handsome famous soccer player Elio can’t remember the name of.

“Rick-“ Elio whimpers, moaning softly as he looks up at the man with heavy lidded lashes, “please, I want you so bad,” the acting he does is not always completely fake, but he feels nothing for Rick, like most of his customers. He vaguely remembers ever truly feeling for one.

“Shush,” Rick shakes his head, “I don’t want to cum just yet.”

Elio stops himself from rolling his eyes, just like that he’s completely alert and out of it. Gross ass old men who can’t even hold back from shooting their loads before their penises even touch Elio’s flesh disgust him, it’s so disappointing that he wants to roll over into the sheets and go to bed.

Elio sighs, letting the growingly more unwanted hands stroke his body with permission he isn’t required to grant. Prostitutes don’t get “can I touch you here?” or “are you sure you’re ready?” they just get knowing forceful hands that tell them when and where to touch, which position to uncomfortably contort in for the clients sole pleasure.

“Turn over,” The American-Italian’ orders, but immediately goes to manhandle Elio himself before Elio has a chance to willingly comply.

Elio’s vision swims in the dark room, turning cloudy at the too close vision of the bed sheet, he appreciates it.

He hears the faint tearing of a foil wrapper, then a soft snapping of a condom being stretched over an erection. The tell-tale crinkle has Elio’s usual nerves settling, he’s only had one customer try to surprise him with bareback, thankfully Elio noticed in time and shoved him off with a knee and an annoyed insult.

Elio tries to refocus himself back on the current situation, _be good for the client Elio, impress him, never disappoint or you’ll be utterly worthless._

Rick pulls down his short shorts hastily, so full of momentum that Elio gasps soundly as cold lube drips down on his exposed inner thighs seconds after his bare ass graced the cold air.

Elio digs his teeth into the cheap laundry detergent scented pillow even before Rick goes inside him, it’s like a preparation, a reassurance. He can handle anything.

The client rests his blunt, bony but thick fingers against Elio’s protruding shoulder blades, leaning all his body crushing weight onto Elio’s delicate frame, Elio furrows his brows, ignoring the sharp feeling between his legs. He’s always sore.

Time seems to fade from dragging seconds to torturous minutes to almost hours. Elio just stares emptily at the sheets before him, zoning out from the jolting his body gets every second from the ruthless older man behind him.

He pictures flowers, sunflowers, hay and beaches. He thinks about road trips he’s been on, and road trips he wants to go on.

He thinks about the warmth of lying on golden white sand on a hot blazing summer day.

He thinks about the cold of touching soft feathery little snowflakes, how the recent snow melted away a couple days ago.

Time resumes normal pace the second Rick’s breathing quickens, Elio sighs, relieved.

“Whoo!” Rick hollers breathily, slapping Elio’s ass like he received an award.

“That was great, goddamn” Rick chuckles, pulling off the condom, Elio rolls onto his back, avoiding eye contact with that brown gaze and instead looking up at the seemingly interesting popcorn ceiling.

“Thanks,” Elio breathes out, his inners and soul feels deflated, flat and lonely like they always do when he’s ending his long nights.

Rick shuffles around the room, appearing hurried now as he quickly gathers his socks and tugging on his pants. “You were amazing, darling.”

After buttoning up, and Elio’s lack of reaction, Rick smirks, throwing $600 down beside him like he’s some whore without any dignity.

“See ya,” Rick waves half-heartedly, adjusting his shirt, “gotta get home to my bitch of a wife.”

Elio nods, swallowing thickly, he won’t be seeing him again.

-

Elio’s freezing with tiny blue short short’s on, prostitutes don’t have reasonable fashion choices unless they don’t want to make a buck. More skin shows what you’re offering, there’s nothing worse than wasting time to get a room just to be declined because “too skinny” or “I prefer hairier boys.”

Thankfully he’s done for the night, his wallets thicker with $1,125 dollars tucked safely in its black pleather.

He’s starving, always starving since he dumbly decided to leave his parents’ house in October of the last year. Stupid does what stupid does.

Lucia’s Café is just in view, right on the corner he used to frequent before the police chased him away and starting patrolling regularly there. They make good croissants and tea, or coffee, that’s if he was in the mood.

He opens the red framed glass door, sliding inside the warm heat appreciatively. The air is much warmer and coffee bean scented than the dingy motel room, it reminds him of home.

A waitress who’s taken his order since he started frequented there is on shift, always night shift, she smiles, putting her pointer finger in the air to gesture ‘one second.’

He nods, smiling tiredly, and rests his face on chin. He’s beyond exhausted, like he could happily sleep for a week. He looks around, just scanning his surrounding in the tight little coffee shop, he notices the usual old lady with shaggy dog like hair who gets up early every morning to have coffee and talk animatedly about her three cats to the owner who seems to be a close friend. A couple teens sitting in a booth, one disrespectful enough to put his feet up on the table, they look like they’ve had a long stretch of night drinking, doing drugs or both.

Elio blinks the fog from his eyes.

There’s one man, eyes deeply invested in his newspaper that makes something in Elio’s stomach twitch.

Woah, Elio nearly verbally makes out loud.

He’s beautiful, gorgeous, mouth wateringly handsome. It’s kind of _insane_ to be that attractive.

Whatever, Elio thinks secondly. The dudes wearing a sleek dark blue business suit and a Michael Kors silver watch, he’s definitely a yuppie. Elio curls his nose, he dreads guys in suits who think they know everything and waltz around like their shit doesn’t stink.

Elio looks down at the gentle sunrise orange peach color of the oak diner table, and the tiny 60s salt shaker and pepper.

Mrs. Geminieve skips over to his table after handing a lone elderly couple in the corner their two steaming coffees.

“Elio, how may I take your order today?” She smiles, her voice is chipper but he can tell she’s tired, it’s understandable.

“The usual,” he smiles weakly, nodding whilst looking down at his hands.

“Toast and black tea with cream and two sugars will be right up,” she states, before leaning in briefly and lowering her voice to a whisper, “cheer up,” she teases good heartedly, bumping his shoulder with her fist.

He grins, but it fades off his face with distraction the second he looks up, Mrs. Geminieve’s already off pouring his drink and the quiet well-kept businessman is straightening his suit, looking directly at Elio.

Elio’s amber sea foam blue gaze fall embarrassedly back down on the table top. Cute business guy’s been watching me, holy shit.

Elio glances back up, this time disappointingly seeing him write a check, and grab his suit case as he slides out of his chair, he’s strikingly tall. Elio’s lustful grave for him digs a little big deeper.

He doesn’t glance Elio’s way at all when he turns to walk around the row of tables, nor when he exits out the diner door onto a quiet morning street.

Elio bites his lip to hide the sting of not feeling good enough.


	2. Crush.

Twisting, turning, sizing himself up, he looks unattractive.

He looks ugly. He looks pudgy in his thighs but like a frail skeleton all at the same time.

He sees ugly bruise purple toned dark circles under his dull eyes. He sees visible ribs and narrow wrists that look like they’d snap easily like a twig. He sees a disgusting vile ghost of the boy he once proudly was.

He thinks about Tommy. Tommy’s lanky tall body, all thin and bone like Elio’s. The vast difference was the cause behind it, Elio’s reasoning was lack of nutrition, sometimes it was purposeful and sometimes he just was too miserable, sulky and alone to eat. Tommy did drugs, lots of E, his favorite that he had a strong taste for was meth. Elio remembers how gross it’d taste on Tommy’s stained teeth when they’d be swapping spit late nights in Tommy’s junky run down little apartment.

Elio doesn’t want to remember their memories together or Tommy in general. The image of them entangled in bed sheets leaves a taste in his mouth so bitter he gets the urge to gargle mouth wash.

He twists the cold water handle, enjoying the distraction of the water, the icy coolness that fills his palms and the soft humming noise. It sounds like a tropical waterfall that Elio can only imagine. It resonates around him, an echo that is surrounding enough that if he closes his eyes tightly enough he can perfectly imagine it.

S _oft white sand, clear blue shallow water, rocks on rocks, standing tall and proud in the midst of a jungle of palm trees, seagulls and cooing blue birds swooping high in the wind. The delicate tapping of two water falls drizzling in a rhythmic pattern onto the wet sand and salty water, it’s everything Elio wishes to experience right now._

He closes all the cracks between his fingers to allow the water to fill in his hands like a bowl, splashing it across his face. The drizzle down his hair line and chin break any thoughts trying to claw and resurface their vile way back into his head. Washing his face with ice water is the closest thing he can get to the feeling of fresh air in grimy New York City.

 -

He pops two toasts into his teeny toaster, it’s one of things he rightfully stole from Tommy, it’s old but it works well enough.

He leans his weight from one leg to the other, feeling the itch to get the motivation to go out and work tonight. He really should, he needs every dollar he can get to be secure enough that he’ll be able to pay his apartment bill at the end of the month.

He’s excited for April to come. He’s been counting down every day it gets closer, thirteen days to go. Working outside doing what Elio _does_ is a bitch in the winter. Skimpy outfits are what sell, not big fugly burly coats that make you appear just as any other passerby in New York. It sucks ass, chapped lips and frost bitten fingers and knees aren’t fun. Nor is the unflattering chattering of his teeth whilst attempting to pull in an iffy customer.

He doesn’t notice that it’s been over a minute that he’s been lost in thought and his toast has been cooked long enough, his heart jumps as he hits the stop button, “shit shit shit,” he yelps, pulling out the hot toast immediately and nearly dropping it by the burning on his fingertips.

It ends up dropping onto the countertop, it’s a smidge darker than he’d like, but not fully burnt. It’s edible enough for his empty stomach to find nourishable.

It’s not the absolute best toast he’s ever had he thinks, biting into the crunchy hardened bread. It makes him sad, reminiscing about the amazing breakfast’s he’d get at home, real home. Real home is in Italy, in Crema where his mother, pa and Mafalda reside. Where he left in high spirits with a hand holding his and a heart full of hope.

He cries into his toast grossly, chewing even where he tastes his own salty tear drops.

He finishes it by nearly choking on how dry his throat got, how wet his eyes are.

“I’m sorry, ma, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, staring down at the cheap linoleum of his empty cold apartment’s kitchen floor.

-

He’s shivering as he makes it down Midtown 7th avenue. It’s busy enough that he blends in easily but sophisticated enough that his torn acid wash jeans and tight button up light pink shirt will make him stand out at 12 am. It’s decently early, an hour specifically. He usually starts at 1. That’s usually the time when creeps decide it’s safe enough to leave their sleeping wives in the dead of night without getting caught red handed grabbing their wallets and tucking a condom in their pocket.

He’s got his cream colored converse on this time with socks. It took one bad night where he slept too late, woke up at 2:30 A.M. and shoved them on without any. The blisters he received from lingering the street corner in them aren’t worthy of ever doing that again.

Elio glances over his shoulder, than back the other way, again and again, hoping to spot out any lingering interested gazes.

-

Stretched out hours pass before his eyes without any action. Well besides the homeless man who asked to bum a cigarette. Elio’s got nothing tonight. It’s understandable, it’s nearly less than thirty degrees and a Sunday night going into Monday morning. All the john’s are tucked in bed sleeping for work in the morning.

“Whatever,” Elio scoffs, heading down in a fast pace towards his favorite diner Lucia’s.

He pulls out his favorite yellow lighter along the way, igniting a flash of orange flame. He squints at the brightness, watching the crisp white edge of his cigarette turn black and then a fury red.

The first puff is always euphoria to his addicted lunges. It takes the stress off his day in an instant. Don’t worry Elio, tomorrow the John’s will be stressed from a Monday’s long day of work and will be begging for service at your feet.

He sighs, stressfully tangling a hand in his hair in pulling. He uses his other spidery long fingers to drop the cigarette, crushing it under his shoe and opening the silver door handle of Lucia’s.

Mrs. Geminieve not on shift yet it seems or just on her day off. He scans the room with his eyes, from the light brown tiles to their swivel red bar chairs. From two middle aged couple dining in with two big meals before them to a lone young teen girl sipping a vanilla milkshake with a pretty decorative red cherry. Then to a couple of hipsters lingering by the low vibrating neon jukebox in the corner.

He stares at the scuffs on his worn out converses with his head low and hands tucked in his jean pockets. He knows with one glance anyone could spot him out of what he is. How obviously dirty and gross he is. Everywhere he goes now in the city he feels like a walking target, like any random man could pinpoint him out as that grimy street hooker who used to favor the corner on South Boulevard.

He feels eyes on him. It itches and crawls all over his skin. He showered earlier but somehow still feels gross like he’ll never fully be able to wash all the paying bodies that have been all over him.

When he looks up he sees nobody looking. Nobody at all actually. His gut sinks low. Maybe being seen is better than being ignored like a rat, he doesn’t can't tell which is worse..

Elio longs for his friends back home across the wide stretch of Atlantic Ocean that holds them apart. He misses Marzia’s playful jokes, playing tennis with Milo’, his cousins practicing the piano with him.

The owner is an Italian lady, late forties appearing, she’s behind the countertop with maroon lipstick on and her hair in a tie. He swallows, digging his hand in his pocket and pulling out a five he didn’t bother putting into his wallet.

He rises on his toes and sits down uneasily onto the bar chair, wringing his fingers together nervously. Anxiety’s been getting the best of him lately.

Alone in New York is like being a pin sized dot on a whole planet. It’s such a large city with too many wondering faces and untrustworthy people.

“May I take your order dear?” The owner asks, her friendly smile crinkling her eyes.

Elio gulps, swallowing down the lump of nerves blocking his throat, “I- uh, just a black tea with cream and two sugars.”

She nods, “that’ll be right up for you.” She paces quickly, placing a black shiny mug down on the opposite counter and pouring black tea out of a fancy coffee pot filled with heat condensation.

She places it in front of him in mere seconds. He can tell she’s had a long day with her hair all frizzy and her forehead pink with sweat. He feels bad for her.

“Will that be all?” she pulls another kind smile. Even if it’s forced he respects her professionalism.

“Yes,” he nods, taking a sip of the steamy warm tea, it settles the itchy loneliness inside him for now.

“Thank you!” he calls after her. She’s nods, already feet away taking another order.

-

He’s been nursing his warm tea for the past five minute, finally vibing the good side of New York. It’s odd how the slightest thing can happen to change you temporarily or entirely.

Things aren’t always going to be bad, he’ll make enough money soon enough that he won’t need to go out hooking every night. That he’ll have nights to spend to himself and maybe even have a lover. Someone to cherish him. Someone to treat him good and tell him he’s the world to them.

He wishes.

He nearly falls out of his chair at the sudden squeal of the chair right beside him being pulled out fast. When he sees the person maneuvering around the chair his mouth nearly drops open, _thankfully_ it doesn’t. Because it’s _cute business guy,_ and cute business guy is sitting right next to me.

_Holy shit._

Elio’s mouth goes dry. He coughs awkwardly, looking the other way, hiding the red blush that rose like a sun on his cheeks.

“Hello,” cute business guy drawls, voice deep and raspy. It crawls all over Elio’s skin in goosebumps and ends up circling his throat like a vice. God his voice is even sexy.

Elio wishes he was greeting him and not presumably the owner. Elio knows he’s not that lucky.

The guy repeats it again this time but in an odder tone, “Hello?”

 _Fuck_ , ice runs down Elio’s spine in embarrassment, he’s talking to me isn’t he?

His wavy curls bounce against his cheek bones as he whips his head around and looks straight into that gorgeous face.

It’s like combusting into flames the way heat rushes inside Elio all the way deep in his belly up to the tips of his ears.

“H-Hi” Elio says dumbly, stuttering slightly with his trance like state. He’d never seen a face that beautiful, that alarming. So enrapturing that Elio’s brain short circuits of any thoughts, in a flustered daze all he can see is dirty blonde hair on the edge of brown. Blue tanzanite shaded irises on a charming face.

_Breathe Elio, he reminds himself._

Cute business guy smiles, all bright pearly white teeth glinting under the yellow lightbulbs. What toothpaste commercial did he come out of, _jesus_.

“Are you from around here?” Is what the guy asks in a sure voice.

Elio’s all jittery and yet he’s so damn suave, Elio reeks with jealousy.

Should he lie or should he be honest? He doesn’t know. Cute business guy might be super attractive but a handsome face can hide a monster. In New York everyone’s either trying to sell something, some will try to pry your business status out of you to see if they can get connections or they’ll ask you if you want to buy some crack. It’s a place full of wonder and most of it you never want to know. It’s plastered on TV as high class and chic when there are more junkies lingering the alleys and sidewalks here than in Vegas.

“Yeah, I am.” Elio lies, pursing his lips in a hopefully non-readable way. Cute business guy might be extravagant but he’s not telepathic.

Cute business guy’s lips pull into the corners, he switches his alertness to the owner making her way over to him in quick steps.

Elio flicks his eyes back down onto the tile because he doesnt want to appear overly invested in talking to him.

“Hello sir, what may I get you tonight?”

Cute business guy clears his throat audibly, “Coffee, black.”

She hums, “that’ll be all?”

“Yes, thank you,” Elio can tell without looking that cute business guy is sporting a grin. Who’s realistically that charming when it’s nearly hitting 3 A.M.?

He glances up briefly, letting his eyes now settle on his almost finished tea. He takes a sip, it’s almost room temperature now but still just as sweet. He can’t decide if he wants to finish it to have an excuse to get out of here before he embarrasses himself or if he wants just wing it and stay and chat. Elio thinks it over. New York is such a busy place that one minute you might see the most beautiful person that’s ever graced your eyes and the next they could be gone forever in the blur of a rushing crowd.

He doesn’t finish his drink, he places it back onto the counter and sits back, pretending to watch the mini TV they have up high near the ceiling. It’s just the local news reporting about a spree of stolen cars.

A soft nudge of an elbow has Elio nearly jolting visibly out of a mixture of shock and nervous excitement.

“Yeah?” he says casually when he collects himself, blinking dumbly to appear like he hadn’t been waiting for cute business guy to attempt to further their conversation.

“So, what part?” Cute business guy asks right before taking a gulp of his dark coffee.

Elio doesn’t know the entirety of New York too well. He’s a damn Italian for chrissakes.

“Brooklyn..” Elio says uncertainly. That feeling like you know something but not for fact. He hopes Brooklyn is really in New York.

Cute business guy hums, sipping his coffee again. Elio lets out a breath of relief, deflating like a bird closing its wings with his tensed up nerves.

“So where are you from?” Elio musters up to ask, straightening his posture.

He goes tight lipped like he’s pondering what to answer Elio. It’s a little confusing.

“New York,” he answers bluntly.

Elio furrows his brows, “what part?”

Cute business guy makes a small indiscernible face to himself, then looking to Elio and answering with a weak waving hand gesture, “all over.”

Elio sucks in a breath, okay, he’s really private. Elio wonders in the back of his mind why he even spoke to him if he doesn’t want to make conversation on his part.

“Alright,” Elio says, downing the rest of his tea and clinking it back on the tabletop. The conversation went south so quickly that Elio just wants to get out of there. He places his 5 dollar bill under his tea mug even though he knows that’s far too much for it.

He tucks in his chair without sparing the taller man a glance. If he’s not interested Elio doesn’t have to be either.

Elio ignores the sinking feeling of disappointment in his gut as he makes his way to the door. The door handle is cold like the blood rushing through Elio’s veins right now, he just wants to be home snuggled in the blanket he pretends that didn’t belong to Tommy.

As soon as he takes three steps out into the windy street he hears the door opening right after him, then following steps on his heels.

Fear rises through him making the baby hairs on the nape of his neck stand, the hell-

A hand grasps him arm in a firm grip, “Hey, I just wanted to talk.”

It’s cute business guy, standing tall like the empire state building. Him standing magnifies his height by a thousand percent. Elio’s decently tall for a boy but nowhere near _that_ tall.

“Did you?” Elio sort of snaps, but his voice just sounds like irritation.

The dude just rolls his eyes, “come on, I know what you do.”

Elio’s heart shrinks and feels tears sting hot at his eyes immediately at the insult, “you don’t know me,” he snaps, pulling out of the strangers grip and quickening his stride.

He’s been walking in long steps, using his wrist to dab the wetness bitterly out of his eyes.

 _Fucking asshole_ , Elio thinks venomously, prostitutes are human whether the general public accepts it or not. They aren’t objects to be desired or belittled at any given time.

He somehow was behind him, fucking somehow, stepping out in front of him with a smug face that Elio wants to punch off with his bony fist.

“Hey- I didn’t mean it like that.”

Elio continues walking.

“Come on-“ the guy says, grabbing Elio’s wrist.

“Don’t touch me,” Elio hisses, yanking his arm away in fear and disgust.

“What do you want?” He asks in an annoyed tone, trying to hide the underlying fear there. The dude could easily beat his face in or even kill him. There are only a couple lingering people across the street at a bar and several homeless people on their side of the street.

“You, for the night.” The tall asshole says easily, smirking as he pulls up a couple hundred dollar bills and waves them in front of Elio’s face as if that’s inviting.

Elio looks left then right, considering his options. His personal feelings that he shouldn’t have don’t matter. Money matters. Maybe this dude was cute before he had words come tumbling out his mouth but not now he isn’t. Now he’s just as grimy as any other client.

Elio sighs, “deal.”


	3. Conflictions.

Elio exhales noisily in relief the second the motel door clicks shut, the business guy suggested going to a higher end Hotel for his own personal preference but Elio denied. Hotel staff annoy him to no end with their nosy stares, better not.

Business dude has a nice car, a really nice black Bentley that Elio had to bite his tongue to avoid saying anything snappy out of jealousy when business dude bragged about it being a convertible as well.

Elio is jittery as he toes his converses off, all pent up with anxiousness of exposing himself. It’s usually not like this. Elio is usually used to the process he’s repeated countless times these past months.

It’s something about the attractive man shrugging off his wrinkle-less designer jacket behind him.

Elio lies promptly onto the bottom edge of the bed, propping himself on his elbows in a façade’ of nonchalant confidence as he watches the man hang his jacket on the bronze coat rack on the side of the motel door.

“So..” Elio clears his throat awkwardly, not continuing as his anxiety chokes him in the quiet thick air. The guy’s eyes are so vivid that Elio shrinks in his gaze, feeling small and defenseless.

“So, what?” business guy asks smoothly, tilting his head like Elio’s interesting, like a pet. A tiny twinge of his lip curling upward is visible in the dimly lit motel room.

“700,” Elio states, finding it in himself to say it firmly, even though somewhere in the back of his mind he feels like he said it weakly.

“For the night,” he adds. His gaze falls heatedly down to his thighs, feeling flushed.

Business guy nods, smirking as he pulls out his wallet. It looks nice, shiny and authentic leather for certain.

“You- you don’t have to pay till.. after,” Elio mumbles, cheeks burning once again at how  awkward and almost naïve he sounds. He’s been prostituting for months now, he should have it confidently down by now. It’s embarrassing.

“I’m good with paying now,” he replies easily, dropping multiple bills onto the dresser right below the large window. Elio bites his lip in hesitation, watching the client close the little crack in-between the two curtains. All the light cascading from the moon sucks vacantly out of the room like Elio’s constricting lunges.

He’s too sure of himself and Elio hates the guy for it.

Elio can’t see but he hears the faint shuffle of the guy pulling off his own clothing, first what sounds like the soft drop of a tie, then buttons popping undone to the seconds after when Elio can hear his pants zipper be pulled down.

“I-“ Elio stutters nervously, “I can’t see.” He’s stating the obvious but he’s full of nerves. He’s never had sex with any client in the absolute dark. It’s a major safety flaw not to see what the client could possibly try to do to him without his knowledge.

“Good,” the client states, somewhere feet before Elio. Worry and fear spike inside his pulse. He hates this guy so much he finds himself regretting agreeing to sleep with him. He should’ve known better. The way his heart is beating rapidly inside his chest, his knees shaky and his palms damp with heat are tell-tale this was a horrible idea. Elio fears he just agreed to be a victim of murder.

 “I want the lights on,” Elio says shakily, looking left and right, trying to map out a shape of the much taller man.

“I paid you a hundred extra,” the man states firmly.

Elio doesn’t reply, but he’s shaking all over. _Breathe, you’ll be fine_ , he tries to mentally calm himself.

He nearly jumps when he feels fingertips touch his upper arm, then the dip in the mattress with a thigh pressing against his clothed one. The man’s sitting beside him. His touches are light and gentle as he ghosts his fingertips up to Elio’s sharp collarbone, then to the underside of his smooth chin.

Elio stops from gulping, and turns his face towards the client, trying to appear surer of himself and less defenseless.

“What’s your name?” Elio whispers, staring bright in the dark of the room, he can’t see anything but he feels the soft breath from the man brushing over his ear.

The man is silent for a couple second, “Todd.”

Elio nearly laughs, but the stifle of his giggle is legible in the silence of the room. The man clearly thought up a name to say.

The guy has a grimace in his voice, “you’re unprofessional even for a prostitute.”

Elio flushes, frowning at the scold.

“Okay- whatever _Todd_ ,” Elio huffs, rolling ‘todd’ in a petulant way. He knows he’s being stupid, that the dude will probably try to just fuck him and take his money and leave, but something about the guy makes Elio want to call him by his real name. It just feels more… genuine than calling him a standard john name.

“It’s Oliver,” the man, _no_ Oliver says bluntly, the fingertips under Elio’s chin turns into a callused hand around his throat, lightly squeezing but it’s enough for Elio to faintly gasp.

Elio lets his eyes fall shut momentarily, one of his hands coming to rest on top of the client’s. His narrow fingers graze upon a watch and wiry arm hair.

Oliver starts pulling just on the edge of rough at Elio’s shirt hem, “take your clothes off,” Oliver whispers, the way he says it is soft enough but Elio knows it’s an order.

“Okay,” Elio nods even though neither of them can see, and stands for about a minute as he fumbles off his jeans, then his shirt which is much easier. He drops it carelessly on the floor, his clothes are dirty anyway. Those jeans especially have been in need for a wash for a whole week.

“Good boy,” the client compliments softly as Elio climbs into his lap, all smooth naked skin clambering onto the tops of the client’s sturdy thighs.

Elio sighs in relief, Oliver might be a complete pushy rude asshole, but he seems not to be a killer. That’s a win in Elio’s book.

Oliver’s hands are extremely large as they run down the expanse of Elio’s arched back, they map out the entirety of his waist and hips without trying.

Oliver’s one hand firmly grips Elio’s soft hip, the other going all the way down to cup Elio’s left ass cheek in hand.

Elio writhes in his grip, feeling goosebumps cascade across his ivory skin, the client’s seemingly gentler than Elio would’ve thought just assuming from his sharp mouth.

The hand gripping his hip comes to rest in Elio’s smooth shampoo washed curls, a breathy hot mouth that makes Elio tingle from his toes to his spine rests on Elio’s ear, Oliver whispering as he exhales, “Get on your knees.”

Elio takes a second to do it, just enjoying the heat of the client’s body momentarily. It’s not because he likes him or anything, it’s just because the room is decently cold.

“Come on,” Oliver persists, lifting Elio by the bony hips off his lap like he weighs nearly nothing.

Elio rolls his eyes because he can, nearly huffing childishly as he sinks to his knees in-between the sprawl of the man’s legs. He likes giving head when it’s fully consensual sex that isn’t being paid for, but when it’s with a customer it’s always a little scary at how little control he has from below. His oxygen intake relies on the client not to choke him forcefully.

Elio runs his fingers lightly up Oliver’s thigh, feeling some hairs and the way the muscle tenses up from Elio being ticklish.

Oliver cups Elio’s cheek, and Elio feels the slick soft tip of Oliver’s cock graze his lips. Elio kind of feels flustered, he’s hard which is unusual when with a client and he feels tingly in every vein. Like he’d imagine a heroin addict would feel finally getting their high of the day.

“Open up.”

Elio’s eyelashes flutter shut, his mouth falling lax as the client guides himself into his mouth, just the tip at first and Elio moans around him at the width. It’s satisfyingly big, so big it feels heavy and almost stretching the corners of Elio’s lips.

Oliver makes a soft exhale, encouragingly rubbing his fingers across Elio’s scalp.

“That’s it- just like that,” he groans as Elio takes more, feeling the spongy head graze the back of his throat before he’s even taken it all the way to the base.

Elio sputters a bit around the base, feeling his gag reflex start up as Oliver presses Elio’s head flat against his pelvis. He’s all the way down, he feels spit grossly sliding down his chin as Oliver slides Elio’s throat up and down his shaft, just pulling out mere inches to the point that he’s always past where Elio’s throat opens up for him.

Elio chokes, pushing weakly at the client’s thigh as he pulls off, hiccupping once as he takes quick inhales. Even coughing already at the soreness in his throat, Elio goes to wipe his chin with the comforter dangling over the edge of the mattress but the client threads his fingers into his hair, Elio pliantly opens his mouth and allows the thick cock to guide its way back down his throat. The taste is thick of his own saliva and the musky pre-cum, there’s a lot for sure, drizzling smoothly down his throat as Elio swallows around him.

Elio hears the soft sound of tell-tale groans, Oliver’s breathy sounds make Elio’s knees and thighs shake as he runs his tongue around the underside of Oliver’s head, where guys are the most sensitive.

He pulls his mouth off with an obnoxious wet pop and jerks Oliver’s cock with quick rapid strokes, aiming it towards Oliver’s own chest. There’s a couple unspoken rules, for one, Elio doesn’t let any client come down his throat. Two, he also doesn’t allow cumshots onto himself, it’s too messy and Elio finds it too gut clenching degrading.

“Fuck,” Oliver says under his breath, running a hand over Elio’s forehead and down to his cheek, stroking him like a cat.

Elio’s wrist feels sore as he quickens the slight twist of his grip, always tightening knowingly at the tip.

Oliver pulls Elio’s hand off, which is surprising and a little disappointing. Is Elio not experienced as he thinks he is? He wonders embarrassingly as he hears Oliver jerking himself in quick strokes. He tries to reassure himself that he’s not disappointed. I mean why would he be? He doesn’t like the dude or anything.

“Fuck- fuck,” Oliver hisses, and Elio hears the slick sound of Oliver’s grip stuttering in his strokes.

Elio jolts in shock and surprise, tightly closing his eyes as liquid, _no_ Oliver’s cum splashes across his eyelashes. He sits in complete awe as ropes and ropes of more cum shoot across his face, warm and gooey onto his nose, lax mouth and then finishing to drip off his chin.

Oliver sighs exhaustedly. Elio sits on back on his heels in awe. His brain barely processing the salty taste in his mouth, the burning of getting salty cum in his eye, he’s just beyond pissed.

Oliver rises without helping Elio stand. Elio stays silent even though his blood pressure is thrumming.

He’s eerily calm as he listens to the sound of Oliver getting dressed, the zipping of his pants clear in the room.

The light switch gets flicked on. Elio’s eyes squint to adjust to the yellow bright lighting invading the room.

He looks over his shoulder in disbelief, watching Oliver grab his shirt where it had been hidden beside a little recliner chair.

Elio grips the edge of the bed to help himself up, his knees weak and jittery as he stands.

He turns to Oliver, staring defiantly at him as Oliver doesn’t seem to notice, or care.

“What the fuck?” Elio says exasperatedly, grimacing deeply at the audacity Oliver has.

Oliver looks over to him, all bright eyed, tall and sturdy. He smiles.

Elio crosses his arms, “this isn’t fucking funny,” he hisses, pointing at his face, “this is so gross.”

He’s red all over. He feels embarrassed. He feels used. He feels like a joke. He feels as low as prostitutes are told they are. He feels disgusting, revolting, _below_.

Oliver’s not laughing but he doesn’t look sorry either. His smile stays firm, “you look good that way,” he promises like it’s no big deal. Oliver simply adjusts his tie around his neck without batting an eye at Elio’s reaction.

Elio feels tears burn at his eyes, he sucks in a deep breath to stave it off. He grabs his jeans and hurriedly tugs them on, so fast they scratch at his thighs. He doesn’t bother pulling on his shirt even though it’s dead freezing outside, he just grabs his money and tucks it deeply into his pocket.

He hurries past Oliver without glancing at him, stopping at the door to say bitterly, “Fuck you.” He looks stupid, topless while wiping cum off his face with his own t-shirt.

Elio regrets it, for some odd reason in the haze of his fury.

Oliver doesn’t react the way Elio worried about, no fists or anything. He just nods, “maybe next time.”

-

Elio runs home, his face feels dry in the spots he couldn’t wipe off completely. He’s been crying all the way, not bothering to stop for any worried passerby’s, not that there are many.

He hates him. He barely knows him and he hates him so much.

Even Tommy wouldn’t pull that shit on him the first time they had sex, and Tommy was a grade A asshole.

Elio feels so stupid for hoping for the best. He always does in the worst of people.

Elio also feels stupid for comparing some stranger to his ex. A client shouldn’t be something Elio cares that much about. It should be expected that they will be dickheads. Most of them always are.

It’s not that Elio’s been respected by much or any clients at all. He’s sadly realizing it’s more than that. Oliver coming on his face without permission is far from the worse treatment he’s ever received. He’s been slapped, punched and once even choked out by a client. One other client made him puke from forceful head.

It’s Elio’s _crush_. Elio has a _god forsaken_ crush on him. It’s one of the stupidest things Elio’s ever figured out about himself.

-

Elio gets home, slamming his apartment door shut without a care, contradicting himself seconds later with a worry of the old lady who lives beside him calling the police.

He’s a mess.

Elio wipes his eyes and runny nose, feeling a dull ache in his gut at tonight’s events.

He wraps himself up in his burgundy blanket, huddling in it as he tip toes to the bathroom.

He frowns when he sees himself, tear stained and white crusty cheeks.

The images of what happened make him sick. He feels stupid for reacting that way. Oliver did disrespect him by not asking, but at the same time…… Elio kind of liked it.

_Elio kind of liked it._

The feeling of Oliver cumming on him was unexpected, hence why he was so annoyed and shocked. However the more Elio ponders on it the more he figures he might’ve even swallowed for Oliver if Oliver had asked.

_What the fuck?_

Elio doesn’t know how to feel. Is he being stupid and overly willing to get paid or does he genuinely just… like him…?

-

Elio showers off the night, feeling sated and tired as he suds off the dry cum out of his eyelashes.

He sits in the shower minutes later, letting the hot stream repetitively run over him as he thinks about Oliver’s moans, the way his hair is that specific shade of sandy dirty blonde. The gentle way Oliver caressed him.

Elio sighs, thudding his head back against the tiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope Oliver being douchey in this chapter doesn't make you hate him too much.... hopefully. More soon! <3


	4. Hollow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rape is in this chapter.

_Three nights later, Thursday morning. 2:02 A.M_

Elio’s out again tonight. He’s stood at his usual corner, veering both ways, looking for any usual faces.

He’s not looking for those fleeting milky ash blue eyes, he’s absolutely not.

The wind whips through his curls and past his achy frail frame. His stomach rumbles noisily underneath his thin black pleather jacket, growling once again when Elio sees a woman walking past with a muffin from the bakery three doors down to the left. He’ll eat later. Right now is Elio’s prime business time.

His rents getting due real soon and he’s tucked away five hundred in cash to have some saving money, not that he probably won’t end up spending it anyhow.

He’s running empty on his cigarettes. His Marlboro reds crinkling as he folds back the lid to remove his last cigarette from the carton, he slides it into the crevice between his top and bottom lip. Elio bites down on the paper, holding it in between the edge of his front and bottom teeth. His palms are patting absentmindedly at his jean pockets for a second and then turning rapid.

What the fuck? He really was stupid enough to leave his lighter at home.

He hears stumbling of feet, laughter from obnoxiously loud voices.

There is a trio of dudes coming from the right, heading from the little sushi bar Elio still wants to try. They are apparently drunk. Well at least the tallest guy of the crew is. He’s lanky, clumsily swinging his arms around the two shorter male’s shoulders.

“You fuckers are such pussy’s, who quits after three shots? Three fucking shots!” the dude booms loudly, laughing snidely as he shoves both of them playfully.

The shortest guy scoffs, flicking his red lighter and cherry-ing the tip of his cigarette and taking a deep pull. He exhales a thick cloud that has Elio lusting for it, “Man fuck you. If I come home to my chick drunk off my ass she’s gonna have all my shit out on the curb before the sun comes up.”

The 2nd tallest chuckles, punching the shortest guy in the shoulder, “you’re too pussy whipped for that Mandy chick, I swear to god.”

They’re nearing, about ten feet away now. Elio huddles himself in his black jacket, hoping to appear smaller, wishfully transparent.

The shortest guy tugs on his own brown leather jacket, fixing it to look half decent. “Whatever man, at least I’m getting Grade A pussy every day while you’re jerkin’ it to them sleazy whores down at the club.”

The tallest and drunkest guy of them honks a laugh, sloppily almost tripping over his untied boot shoe laces.

Elio grimaces, men in groups are shitty but to make matters worse _drunk_ men in groups are much more dangerous. Elio prays in his head they won’t spot him out for a fag bash.

The middle height dude spits nastily onto the ground, and itches his crotch, “Nothing shameful about pulling in talented stripper pussy, if Mandy turned you down you know you’d be right on them bitches.”

The short guy snorts, laughing while shaking his head. “Mandy’ll never get rid of me. Whenever she’s got an itch I’m always there to _scratch_ it,” he pointedly caresses his crotch when he drags out the word ‘scratch’.

They’re about to pass Elio when the tallest drunk one stops, head crooking sideways and eyes turning squinty as he peers at Elio in the darkness.

Elio keeps his lips tight, looking away bashfully and hoping the dude’s lack of sobriety is causing him to overanalyze Elio for simply standing.

“Yo, Tony, s’that a chick or dude?” the tall one chimes, stalking a bit closer than Elio would like.

The short one, presumably Tony, stops walking and glances back at Elio now too.

“Fuck- I don’t know man.” Tony, with his stupidly thick jersey accent says directly to Elio, “yo she-he, you gotta pussy down there?”

Elio glances away momentarily, rolling them in agitation. He just wants to make a buck tonight and not get swarmed by men who can’t hold their tongues.

Elio’s not looking but he sees out of his peripheral the short guy coming closer, invading the three feet of space he’d had between them.

Elio yelps when he feels a rough tug on his wrist and jacket, facing the guy who’s about five or six inches shorter than him.

“Can’t you hear bitch? My friends and I were asking you a question,” Tony spits, obviously trying to impress his friends by being overly aggressive.

Elio’s scared but mostly pissed, not tonight, not fucking tonight.

“Can you just fuck off?” Elio musters, deciding it’s better to pretend to have some dignity and respect for himself than expose the truth that he’s nothing more than a prey. His bony body can back that up.

“Ha, that she-he is a dude,” the tall drunk one slurs from a couple feet behind Tony.

Tony pulls a tight smirk, looking extremely irritated at Elio’s confident sharp reply.

In a blink of Elio’s lashes he’s shoved back roughly against maroon brick wall, his spine collides sorely with it and his lungs burn instantly from the biting exertion.

“What’d you say to me, bitch,” Tony glares hard, teeth gritted and he looks like a wild dog ready to snap.

Elio shrinks in submission, he’d rather act like a bitch than keep up his snarky lips and lose all his goddamn teeth.

“Nothing,” Elio whispers, eyes cascading down to the cigarette butt and black gum littered pavement. His cheeks burn a rosy red with embarrassment in the harsh bitter air.

Tony chuckles lowly, glancing back at his boys cockily at Elio giving in. Tony’s appears to be a rough Italian from jersey, all short build, bronze skin and trim black hair. He’s got a bruised purpling eye and split lip to match his ugly nature. The other two males look like they could be of Italian descent but Elio can’t be too sure in the dim lighting paired with his lack of care.

Elio grimaces, looking away. There’s an alley just about ten feet away, if he needs to escape that’ll be his only chance of a destination to run. It’s better to get beat up while trying than just to take it.

The tall drunk guy is stumbling over his feet even though he hadn’t begun walking away, he falls into Tony, making Tony shove into Elio.

“Sorry- sorry,” the tall drunk douche slurs, laughing throatily as he regains balance. His voice sounds irritatingly scratchy like it’d dealt with too many cigarettes and vodka in its time.

Elio flushes at the press of the short guy to his chest, wishing he’d taken another corner tonight to wave his tail at. He’d probably have his wallet a good three hundred dollars richer too.

“Shit- watch where you’re stepping idiot,” Tony grits, turning away from Elio and smacking the tall dude on the side of his head. The tall guy doesn’t flinch, just smiles dopily like he’s used to the rough housing.

The one mid-height guy didn’t intervene at all, just watching the chaos quietly with a newly lit cigarette playing between his fingers.

The air is still for once; like it is somehow waiting like Elio is for the next move.

A cop car appears from around the far end corner, turning onto their street. It’s like a heaven’s gift to Elio. _Thank god_ , he thinks.

“Shit- Tony, let’s get the fuck outta here, the fuckin’ 5-0’s coming,” hisses the quiet mid-height dude, waving the hand with the cigarette adorned between two spidery thin fingers towards the oncoming cop vehicle.

Tony sends him a glare, which in turns changes to a cocky smirk, “we ain’t doing _nothing_ wrong here. I just gotta teach a bitch a lesson,” he says, glancing at Elio. “Some people just got no respect, you gotta learn your place in the world if you wanna get anywhere,” Tony sneers.

“Don’tcha got to get home to your chick Tony?” the drunk guy slurs, his stringy sweaty light brown hairs clinging to his reddened forehead as he leans on his other friend’s stiff shoulder.

Tony’s lip quirks upward, he jerks his head towards his drunk friend, “fuck her.”

“Whatever man, I’m outta here,” the mid-height dude says, waving them off weakly as he begins striding away.

The drunk dude laughs noisily, following suit after.

Tony looks even bitterer at his friend’s lack of interest to see whatever sick little display he’d planned impressing them with.

Elio gulps inwardly, his lashes flittering as he cascades his gaze up and down.

“Guess it’s just me and you,” the guy, Tony says slickly, watching idly as his friends disappear further and further into the long stretch of cold New York City street. The air feels empty. The few passerby’s giving them no attention. Elio feels trapped. He’s too thin to win a fight with the stocky shorter male. Elio hates being him. He hates being so defenseless. So weak and vulnerable. He curses nature for destining him to have his mom’s slender body instead of his dad’s slightly stocky one. He wishes to not be an easily spotted prey.

Curse his long lashes and soft shoulders for making him appear so small.

“Guess so,” Elio whispers in return, trying to be more up-front and a little less at fear now that he’s down to only one guy to fend off instead of three.

“Yeah?” Tony replies, eyebrows arching up in an entertained way, “you like that, huh?”. A filthy smirk follows after onto that vile face. He’s not conventionally unattractive at all, honestly, but he smells like sweat and has the ego of Patrick Bateman which isn’t appetizing for Elio fortunately.

Elio doesn’t say anything and keeps his eyes down.

He feels heady warm breath air brush over his cheekbones and weight press against his hips before he can even blink.

“Thought you had to get home to your girlfriend,” Elio quips easily, glancing up without hesitation this time.

Tony smirk deepens lasciviously, his brown eyes turning dark with his pupils overtaking.

Elio knows that look too well. He’s been an object for a while now.

“How much ya goin’ for?” Tony whispers darkly, his gaze drawn downwards, his fingers playing on the hem of Elio’s mom cutoff jeans.

“Depends on my mood,” Elio says cockily, biting his lip just to play it up like he always does with clients.

It’s kind of morbidly funny how a sex worker can fuck the same guy who calls them slurs and threatens to beat them the same night they might drop to their knees for them. It’s depressively funny, Elio accepts it. It no longer feels as tragic. What others would feel insulted by Elio’s been forced and conditioned to accept like the sad grimy boy he’s become.

“How much?” Tony states bluntly, jerking Elio to press flat against his front.

“Three-three hundred,” he stutters out. He gives the junky looking dudes a discount, knowing if he’d steep to high they’d just butt out of the bid all together to save that money for their addiction fix of choice.

Tony eyes him, giving him a sleazy smile. His bottom teeth are crooked and his top tooth as a chip in it. He has two crosses on both his hands, entangled in black inked writing that Elio can’t make out.

“C’mon,” Tony orders smoothly, jerking his head to the direction of the alley for Elio to catch on and follow. Not that he has to willingly anyways with the firm hold Tony has on his wrist.

Elio glances around. It’s getting real late, even for the insomniacs of New York the crowd that once was in the streets have thinned out greatly. Elio appreciates it to a point.

The alley is dimmer than the street, nearly pitch black besides the one lone streetlamp outside of it on the other far end. There’s a couple dingy green dumpsters delved in duct tape and spray paint with gang names roughly adorned on them. It stinks of cigarettes and rotten seafood from the nearby Sushi Restaurant.

Elio doesn’t see any lingering sleeping homeless men and he considers that a win.

“I uh-“ he whispers nervously, “I don’t usually do it- my services in alleys.”

Tony’s barely legible, just the shape of him and the brightness of his dirty smile, “your services huh? You sellin me donuts or are you bending over to take what I have to give ya?”

Elio frowns, feeling a dread feeling starting in his gut. He’s got a nasty itching feeling. Momentarily he thinks of what his mother would say or think. It claws at him grossly.

 _I’m sorry mom_ , he thinks without trying. He’s guilt ridden to his frail core.

“I thought earlier you were going to teach me a lesson,” Elio snaps back feisty. He’s already been annoyed by this fucker longer than he should’ve and being continuously disrespected is making Elio want to deck him in the nuts.

“Relax, princess. Be glad I didn’t wanna ruin that pretty face of yours. S’not like your ass is that great.”

Elio exhales in frustration. Just ignore it.

He feels firm hands guide him from the back of his hips towards the wall, swiftly running across his front to unzip him. His jeans are hastily pulled down my rough dry fingertips and the temperature of the air burning his delicate skin with ice crispness.

“Condom,” Elio orders before he even hears Tony pull down his own jeans.

“Relax, I ain’t even unzip yet,” Tony chuckles lowly. He reaches out and palms Elio’s ass, the left cheek being completely covered in a warm hand. The one pleasant thing Elio feels.

Elio’s breath flutters across his forearm that he’s leaning his forehead against. The ground is dark and cemented, there’s a pile of blankets discarded besides them, like a homeless man either lives there or used to.

He hears spit before he feels it, he wrinkles his nose, shaking his head even though Tony can barely see.

“No- we’re using lube,” Elio grits, bending over and patting his jeans for the petite lube bottle he keeps in his back pocket.

“So picky for a prostitute,” Tony insults snidely, caressing Elio’s hips as Elio returns to standing. Elio hands him the bottle quickly, hearing the soft twist of the cap and then the press of softened wet fingers against his already prepared hole.

“Sweet-“ Tony compliments in an slight awed tone, massaging between Elio’s legs like he felt something surprising, “you shave, most whores don’t.”

Elio numbly thuds his head against the brick, trying to blur everything just a bit. He wishes he took a Xanax, something, anything to feel a little more worthy of his existence.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” Elio says, starting to sizzle with agitation.

“Mmm,” Tony hums without a bit of sounding affected. He closes his hand firmly on Elio’s mouth and pushes in.

-

_Six minutes later_

Elio’s hair is being pulled tightly, harsh to the point he has to arch his neck back because it _hurts_.

The sounds between them are wet, sloppy and loud. Elio’s whimpering brokenly. He hurts all over, inside, and his frail bones.

Tony is hissing through his clenched teeth, smacking Elio repeatedly across the ass with one hand till Elio feels them welt with flaming heat intensity.

“Ow- ow- ow,” Elio grits out on every thrust. The guy’s dick is like his height, short but thick.

Tony seems to be getting off on Elio’s pain, encouraging it if anything. He removes his entangled fingers from Elio’s curls and captures it around Elio’s throat instead, choking him slightly and forcing his spine to arch uncomfortably.

“Take it- fuck,” Tony groans, his breathing ragged as Elio feels his thrusts turn tell-tale to his upcoming orgasm.

Elio wishes it to end already.

Tony pulls out unexpectedly. Elio wrinkles his brows in confusion, about to turn around when a hand stills his hip.

“Wha-“ Elio slurs in confusion, glancing back and seeing the outline of Tony’s shoulders in the soft glow from the moon.

“Can’t cum with a condom on,” Tony replies easily, taking off the condom like it’s fine.

Elio freezes, he turns around rapidly. “Well that’s too fucking bad, no condom no sex,” Elio states icily, crossing his arms and about to reach down and get on his jeans.

Tony shoves him backwards against the wall, “My rules. I’m paying.” Tony holds his bony hips roughly, nails digging into pallid skin.

Elio pushes him back firmly, “fuck off.” He feels like crying and running, but both are pointless. Crying won’t gain him any sympathy and running will gain him an indecent exposure and prostitution charge, he’d rather not.

“C’mon,” Tony whispers heatedly, hot breath brushing on his face as Tony cages him in once again like a predator.

Elio’s crying before he knows it. Hot tears warming his cheeks in the winter air as he takes stuttered breaths. His ribs exposed as he intakes air greedily, trying to calm himself.

Tony doesn’t seem to care or notice. He takes Elio’s waist in his grip, forcing Elio’s weak legs to submit to being lied down.

Elio’s too frozen before he realizes what is happening.

Oh my god

Oh my god

Oh my god

The words blare off in his head like a deadly tornado siren.

He’s about to be raped.

“Stop-“ Elio cries brokenly, attempting to push him back with all the strength he has in his bony arms.

Tony’s arms are at least twice the size of his own. They take control easily as he presses them onto hard cement. He’s snickering, nosing along Elio’s hairline as he presses his narrow hips between Elio’s legs.

“Please- please- please- don’t do this,” Elio begs through fat tears, “please!”

Tony shushes him, “I’m clean baby, relax,” he holds Elio’s wrists his one hand and presses himself in with the other. Elio’s little frail ribcage doesn’t protect his puny heart from wrinkling like a dead maroon rose beneath the white bone.

Elio enters another world. He drifts off. Somewhere so blissfully far away from where Elio’s at now; all alone, dead after midnight, heart in a drain and underwear discarded on a revolting New York City alleyway. His hair’s sweaty and clinging to his forehead, his back is pressed forcefully on a smelly raggedy navy blue blanket that belongs to a homeless person. He’s ruined.

Tony thrusts inside him.

It’s different now.

Naturally wet, Elio’s inners being exposed to unwanted potential STI’s.

Elio wants to choke to death on the vomit he feels itching to come up his throat.

Tony’s whispering in his ear all types of things that Elio wishes he could dull out.

“See? I knew you’d like it.”

“You take it so well.”

Elio sobs until he’s choking on air, and then he sobs some more.

His mind goes blank. So unbelievably blank; he can’t process anything.

Hips stutter against his bony ass, Elio’s hands are lax, not fighting anymore.

Tony groans, long and deep into his ear.

Elio’s eyes stay glued to the moon. It blurs in his eyes when the tears get too thick.

Tony pulls out. Elio doesn’t close his legs. He doesn’t move a muscle, an eyelash, a breath.

He’s dead silent as Tony pulls up his pants.

A quiet chuckle, it sounds fond. “Cumslut.”

Seconds pass and Tony’s gone.

He’s gone.

Elio closes his eyes for seconds, trying to regain feeling.

He’s so numb.

He hears soft footsteps coming towards him and that’s when Elio begins shaking in fear like a leaf.

Elio opens his eyes instinctively.

It’s not Tony. It’s not a homeless man.

It’s Oliver.

Oliver’s shoulders go stiff in the blurry lighting.

“Oh my god-“ Oliver says, sounding choked.

Elio feels himself be lifted as he closes his eyes, going limp in Oliver’s arms.

-

Oliver doesn’t take him to a hotel or motel. Oliver takes him home, to Oliver’s home.

Elio sleeps, head crooked to the side and bleary tired.

His mind is hollow of dreams for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies to anyone who was affected by the rape in this chapter.


	5. Can't ruin the ruined.

There’s no sun when he wakes up, which is normal for Elio.

But there’s a pang deep in his gut of something, something gross-

It floods all the breath from his lungs away like a tsunami wave when last night comes back to him.

_The hand around his throat. The hands touching his arms- no- holding them down, restraining him. The sharp hips that pressed roughly between Elio’s frail thighs- forcing them open._

_Brown eyes- dark deadly brown eyes- that depraved lecherous glint._

_Tony-_

_Elio remembers it all._

“-Fuck” Elio gasps, jumping up hastily. He freezes like artic waters surged through his veins, filling up every pore. Where is he? Whose room is this? Whose house?

There’s a black mink blanket curled around his small frame, bunched up above his toes on a cleanly white king sized bed. There’s an expensive dresser without a mark on it, dark wooded with an even larger box screen above it, placarded on the wall perfectly. There’s a ginormous painting that’s just inches from touching the ground- the extremely nice ground which appears to be marble of some sort. All glossy and pretty- chiseled and too neat, like a Stanley Kubrick film, perfected until immaculate.

It’s then, when his bleary eyes come to- that he notices him.

Long- long legs, sprawled casually in prim black trousers, an opaque plain white t shirt that probably costs too much money for Elio to even think about. It’s him- cute business guy- or asshole douchey business guy- whichever Elio chooses between.

Right now nicknames aren’t his main concern though. He just wants to be home- his real home- not his shitty little apartment that feels empty of what home should feel like. He wants to curl up onto his Ma and Pa’s lap and cry, tell them everything about every little inch of where he fucked up. Tell them where he started to crack, where he started to become gullible enough to chance a relationship over his family- he truly had been so stupid, just mere months ago to leave. To even think a guy like Tommy could take care of him in this mostly unknown land- to even think that Tommy would love him. Elio had been insanely blind. His heart is his own enemy, his own unforgiving betrayer.

He wishes for his Ma’s golden brown eyes and his dad’s darker ones.

He wishes for her soft humming and his dad’s quiet reassurances.

He sighs, looking at Oliver’s eyes that are staring right back at him.

He doesn’t know where to start.

“I- uh,” Elio’s tongue feels heavy, he glances around, looking for his own clothing. It took him till now to notice he’d been dressed, a fresh laundry detergent scented white shirt is on him. It’s huge. It’s so big that it’s just above his knees and the shirt’s not even fully stretched out.

“I should get going,” Elio whispers, his cheeks toasted red. He’s so embarrassed. He feels raw inside from someone even seeing him in that state- especially Oliver seeing him like that. He’d looked so pathetic, on the ground- shivering from the cold and tears streaked down his cheeks. So naked, he must’ve looked like the most shameless whore Oliver’s ever seen.

“You were raped-“ Oliver replies bluntly, crossing his hands and a wrinkle etching between his brows. He must think Elio’s utterly stupid.

Elio shivers at the word, hating the sound of it in the air and not just in his head. He shakes his head instead, rejecting it, rejecting Oliver’s thoughts on it. “It’s my job,” he says, it’s bitter but he acts like it’s only an assertion.

“Sure,” Oliver nods stiffly, “but I don’t think being left crying on the ground looks like a great job description.”

Elio stifles a dry laugh, he smirks, empty and wrong, “you make it sound so bad,” he says it slickly, like it’s supposed to be flirty or something. He’s past the point of having an ounce of respect for himself, caring about himself at all doesn’t feel right anymore.

Oliver doesn’t say anything in response immediately, instead takes a sip of whatever alcohol that is swishing in his clear glass resting in his right hand.

Elio pushes the blanket off him completely, fumbling to his feet on legs that feel weaker than normal. He hadn’t ate since yesterday- or the day before, he vaguely can remember. The day’s blur more so than not these days.

“Where are my clothes?” Elio asks, looking down at his pale toes shyly and clasping thin spidery fingers across his belly. He doesn’t want Oliver to stare at the skeleton he is.

Oliver swallows audibly, Elio glances up, Oliver juts his chin to the dresser. Elio sees them now, his shirt and jeans cleanly folded atop eachother.

“Julia washed them for you,” Oliver states simply, sipping at his honey colored liquor.

Elio yawns, scratching at an itch on his scalp, “who?”

“My maid,” Oliver says, standing. It’s intimidating to watch Oliver elongate himself further, he’s a tower over Elio. Oliver straightens his shirt, glancing at Elio without a word, just that steady undeterred stare.

Of course, Elio thinks without saying. Of course Oliver would have a maid. Being rich is convenient.

Just like back home, Elio thinks. Not that he sees Mafalda as just a maid or anything, of course not, but the financially stable part of his life in Italy was something he then took for granted.

Elio is quick to pull on his jeans, he’s used to hustling. He has a horrible sleep schedule, when he wakes up too late in the AM’s he could beat an Olympic track star with his record time of getting dressed and clean enough to go out to work.

He is graceful with removing Oliver’s borrowed shirt, and places it neatly on top of the dresser. He’s thankful he hadn’t been left out there all night. The thought that Oliver cared enough to give him shelter- even for the night, it’s unbearably sweet. Elio feels unworthy of it.

“Thank you-“ Elio stutters, turning away as he pulls his own shirt down to cover his concave torso and visible ribs protruding through his delicate white skin.

Oliver bites his lip, holding a thought- a sentence that looked like it was about to slip.

“Do you want a ride home?”

Elio’s insides warm at the proposition, even though his mind claws at him when he opens his mouth, his mind telling him heatedly that he’s greedy to say yes, Elio says-

“Sure,” with a soft, easy smile that’s real.

-

Oliver drives him home in his Black Bentley, occasionally turning up the radio to whatever’s on. The building’s all look like same and the people’s faces are too alike, too different or look too much like anybody Elio’s seen before. They blur out into the fog they are. A lost city of duplicated souls, all just trying to mold their way into the limelight, to get their feet in shiny door’s.

_‘Janie’s got a gun,_

_Her dog’s day just begun_

_Now everybody is on the run_

_Tell me now it's untrue_

_What did her daddy do?’_

Elio glances at Oliver, who turned up the song once the radio host announced the listeners the station would be playing it.

“You like this song?” Elio asks, just making conversation in the quiet thickness between them.

Oliver smirks, eyes staying forward on the road.

“Why?”

Elio stares down at his lap, biting his lip before answering, “I don’t know, just wondering.”

Oliver grins, Elio can’t read it.

“Yeah- it’s a good song.”

Elio stays silent and readjusts his feet position.

“It’s about molestation, Janie got touched by her dad, so in turn she kills him,” Oliver adds, there’s an edge to his voice.

Touched- molestation- the words dig into Elio wrong, his conscious of what happened hours to him before.

“Oh,” Elio replies, voice quiet. His throat is dry.

Oliver hums. Elio jolts in surprise when fingers clasp his knee.

“Calm down,” Oliver states, his hand holding Elio’s knee bone firmly. It’s warm- it feels good. So electrifying Elio feels hot lightning blast up his spine. A thin sweat breaks out from every pore, making his skin glistening and soft.

Elio nods, listening, he keeps still in Oliver’s grip. Oliver’s thumb is so tempting, unexplainably powerful just with the slightest graze of it across Elio’s lower thigh.

Elio whimpers without trying to, it’s involuntary as Oliver’s hand rises to clasp Elio’s mid-thigh, his palm covers the entirety of Elio’s flesh there. It’s mouth wateringly attractive.

“-Oliver-r,” Elio says brokenly, his voice cracking. He wants-

The night is cold- icy out, it looks midnight blue. The air inside Oliver's Bentley is hot though- humid and comfortable. It feels so right.

He shoves Oliver’s hand between his legs, right at his crotch, he doesn’t know if he wants pressure on his cock or Oliver to slide his fingers in his-

“Elio-“ Oliver snaps, grabbing Elio’s wrist firmly and glaring at him with tense eyes that read perfectly clear to Elio. They’re at a red light, just about two streets from Elio’s apartment.

The red hue makes Oliver appear almost devilish, black eyes and a firm scowl on his lips. Elio nearly drools like the slut he is.

“You’re being very bad,” Oliver states harshly, holding Elio’s wrist still firmly. Elio feels like he’s being scolded like a child- it shouldn’t make him react this way but- but-

“Please-“ Elio whispers hotly, arching into Oliver’s grip. He doesn’t understand why he’s reacting this way. Had Oliver drugged him? What? Why is Elio so horny like a cat?

“Elio, stop-“ Oliver orders, keeping Elio wrist in his hold as he presses back down on the pedal as the light cascades them both green.

Elio laughs airily; feeling like this is a game of cat and mouse. He wiggles in his seat, his bottom feels hot, his blood pooling low. His lungs and brain feel like he’s been strangled, so nicely hazy, all he wants to do is-

He rises, leaning clumsily over the console between them, he presses his cheek to Oliver’s crotch like a cat in heat, humming against the firm rise in the trousers.

Elio palms it, sliding deft fingers up and down the thick shape of it. Oliver’s cock is only half hard, but it’s filling out his pants beautifully, long and just-

Oliver’s car comes to a sudden stop, Elio looks up in confusion. Oliver’s not parked outside Elio’s apartment, instead just a smidge down the block from it.

He must’ve pulled over when Elio palmed him.

“What are you doing?” Oliver asks, he looks pissed.

Elio shrinks at that look, not used to it, and especially not wanting it from him.

“I just- I wanted to-“

Oliver lets out a pointedly annoyed exhale, “you’re acting like a complete whore.”

Elio blinks stupidly, “wha- what?”

He doesn’t understand.

Oliver pushes him back, not rough but not nice either.

“You were raped last night- shit, just hours ago-“

Elio glances at the time, yep, only 5:46 A.M.

“My maid wiped you down- you’d been bleeding and dripping cum.”

Oliver looks disgusted. Elio’s insides are revolted at that more than the harsh words that leave his mouth.

Elio could die of embarrassment, “well I’m sorry you’re such a picky client that you can’t deal with the things that come with my job.”

Oliver grits his teeth, his hands turning to fists against his leather steering wheel cover, “being fucked on the ground in an alley isn’t a job- that’s being _desecrated_.”

“You shouldn’t of helped me then you asshole,” Elio bites bitterly, gnawing on his bottom lip so hard he tastes copper.

Oliver looks at him, those eyes could kill, “don’t think so highly of yourself sweetheart, I wouldn’t leave anyone who looked as frail and weak as you on the ground like that,” he chuckles icily without real amusement to the words, “besides, you’d probably would be as stiff as a board right now had I not found you.”

Elio bites his tongue, hard, it hurts badly. Igniting real fire and wetness behind his eyes, the vile way Oliver hissed those words at him cut deep.

Elio feels numb as the car starts moving again.

He feels numb as it comes to a stop.

He feels numb as he glances one last time at Oliver with wet eyes, rosy embarrassed nose and dry chapped lips, his voice cracks as he gives a weak, “thanks,” and shuts the door.

He feels empty when Oliver pulls off without glancing back.

He feels horrible as he trails up the cigarette butt littered pavement.

He feels disgusting as he climbs the interior stairs.

He feels violated as he opens his apartments paint peeling door.

He feels unrecognizable of who he is anymore, of what he’s become as he lies down and has the air heartbreakingly empty, all to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just ignore the fact that 'Janie's got a gun' didn't come out till 89'.


	6. Same old mistakes.

Elio doesn’t know what to think.

He doesn’t know where to start.

Where to start with himself, what he is, what he’s become.

He’s a hooker.

H – O – O – K – E – R

He lolls the letters calmly in his head. The word falls blandly to him. It doesn’t mean much.

He’s not some stereotype people think he is. No one is. Stereotypes exist to keep certain people feeling above so they can shit on the people below their moral high ground.

Elio’s just a boy selling his body for money. He’s not some sleazy person doing this for a kick, because he likes it or anything, he’s doing this for a means to survive. He’s doing this because he chose this. He chose this by being insanely stupid, leaving his perfectly sweet welcoming family back home for a strung out boy with dull eyes.

“Fucking Tommy,” Elio laughs dryly to himself, it digs and doesn’t uplift but the name flows nicely on his tongue. It’s empty though from lack of use of those syllables.

Tommy was a stereotypical ‘pretty boy’ when Elio met him. Elio had just been on the edge of sixteen, sat outside a diner with some friends back home in Crema. He remembers taking that small sip of Antonio’s lemonade vodka the second his gaze was destined to fall on him, Tommy.

_“Sei un tale cazzo,” You’re such a dick,” Marzia says to Antonio, giggling and shoving playfully at his arm._

_Antonio grins wide and proud, fixing the wrinkles on his shirt with a swift tug at the hem and baring his teeth gleamingly, “Cos'altro potrei essere la principessa?” What else could I be princess?’_

_Stefano, long legged and taking up a good third of the table, tucks his medium length curls docile behind his ears. His lips are stretched thin into a sleek smile. “Uno stronzo, ma non sei abbastanza utile per essere quello” ‘An asshole, but you aren’t useful enough to be that.’_

_Elio snorts, sat closest between Marzia and Antonio, he eyes Stefano’s bushy brows before his vision blurs with molten yellow sunlight as he tips his head back, stealing a sip of Antonio’s lemonade._

_The lemon acid burns the back of his throat in a bittersweet way, he hums._

_Then there’s a flash of black coat, no, specifically a nice looking leather jacket. There’s a skinny dude nestled in it. He’s all tall and lacks width but his face, his face is beautiful._

_Usually a guy like that wouldn’t fall into Elio’s ‘type’ category but Elio feels like he’s changing because-_

_That guy is otherworldly handsome, dark onyx brows and these glinting eyes, they are dashing between the mini crowd surrounding the diner but they land on Elio’s._

_Elio gulps, like actually gulps like they do in the movies. It’s almost like a movie scene Elio supposes, except the trick of it is that they’re two males instead of the typical straight scenario._

_Elio doesn’t know if this guy happens to be into guys but that look he’s receiving is promising, so tempting._

_His friend’s conservation faded to background noise, it’s just them, this look that’s connecting them._

_Elio doesn’t know what it means but-_

_A cough, “Elio? Uh- Elio,” Marzia, right._

_He’s dazed and sounds it, “huh?”_

_“Antonio stava parlando con te,” Antonio was talking to you’ she tells him pointedly, looking slightly miffed at the leather jacket James Dean type Elio’d been staring off at._

_Elio blinks stupidly, looking expectantly at Antonio but his eyes keep failing him to remain focused. The handsome face in the leather jacket is halted now, he’s using the white decorative iron fence bordering the tables as leverage to lean on, he’s smoking a cigarette, it’s getting stem-like now, short and flame about to kiss the filter._

_Elio wants to know what those pink lips would feel like, soft or chapped, rough or soft on his lips, his neck._

_Elio wants to kiss him bad._

_The lemonade straw between his lips gets removed swiftly, he glances in confusion, it’s in Antonio’s grasp, “stop being a drink thief,” Antonio chides with a laugh and takes a sip._

_Elio would laugh if he was paying any attention to his friends, but he’s not, he’s enraptured on something he doesn’t have but he wants to._

_Speak of the devil or whatever caring entity there is watching over them, the James Dean look alike with the small curved nose makes his way towards him, there is a prominent swagger in his walk, so certain and sure of himself, so promising of a good time._

_He stops on his heels, bites his lip and those eyes talk before his lips do._

_It’s like the world stops. The entire city of Crema loses its oxygen._

_The table of four all look up at him now, like he’s this energy they can’t ignore._

_“What’s up angel?” He says, rolling his tongue beautifully on the ‘angel’, his voice is raspy, rough and so starkly clear that his accent’s American._

_Marzia blushes immediately, assuming he’s referring to her and sputtering “nothing much,” quickly._

_James Dean doppelganger wears that sleazy smile, he licks his lips, “I wasn’t talking to you sweetheart.” He glances Elio’s way, touches his shoulder like he owns him, “what’s your name darling?”_

_“Elio,” Elio says._

_He hadn’t known then that’d it’d been a mistake._

Elio doesn’t believe in mistakes. He believes mistakes are an ignorant person’s way of looking at life. Mistakes aren’t real, they are things that are meant to happen. No matter how bad, how ugly the things you’ve done haunt you, they are what you learned from. Without them Elio wouldn’t be better. He’d still be falling for pricks like Tommy.

It doesn’t stop Elio from fearing history to repeat itself.

Elio likes Oliver without a doubt and it truly, absolutely, undoubtedly, sucks.

Oliver’s got money, Oliver’s got a sharp mouth and an asshole personality but there’s something about him besides his overwhelmingly obvious good looks and nice vehicle.

Elio fucking hates him.

He barely knows him and he hates him. He loathes him.

He doesn’t want to like the thought of Oliver being there for him, Oliver just doing that for him just because. Oliver didn’t even get to touch Elio’s body or get any satisfaction last night but he took Elio home and kept him safe from the cold air’s frost because he chose to, and that means everything to Elio.

He’s sure Oliver didn’t mean anything by it, from what Elio can tell Oliver’s very intelligent, he’s probably got a degree into something that only people with money could go to school for. So with that in mind Oliver probably just sympathized with him.

-

Elio decided on showering.

He’s sore and he hurts all over, it’s not that that’s very new but the sore area is. He’s usually just a tad swollen down there but not today, today it’s much worse.

He’d been struggling and his body bared the brunt of it.

He needs to go see a doctor to be checked but it’d be out of pocket and he’s not too sure he wants to risk not eating again for a big bill.

He’ll be fine he supposes, it’s not like Tony looked that dirty or smelled bad, plus he had a girlfriend. Elio’s hopes are high that he didn’t catch something from that fucker.

It’s gross as he washes himself, he feels oddly like he’s cleaning a body that’s not his own.

The suds run down his ankles past his toes and then into the drain. He closes his eyes and imagines washing away everything’s that happened.

-

The sky’s darkening and Elio turns onto the corner, he runs his eyes over the expanse of people but he doesn’t see anything that pings to him. He doesn’t see anybody interesting.

He doesn’t see Oliver and in the same thought he realizes he’d unknowingly been searching for him.

He truly needs to stop.

“Hey sweetheart,” it’s quick, fast and straight to the point. Elio’s wearing ripped jeans, right at the knee exposing knobby legs and bruised knees from one too many bj’s in dark alleys or motel linoleum.

He glances up at the stranger’s voice, bangs flopping messily in his hair, he forget to brush it and it’s a terrible mess but thankfully it’s not deterring any john’s.

“Hey,” Elio smiles, fake and full of sleazy filth, he grazes his thin fingers on the man’s burly shoulders. The man’s clearly a trucker, metalhead t-shirt and vintage cowboy boots on his feet, fuck he’s even wearing the stereotypical baseball hat.

It’s too easy.

Elio smirks, “want to take me to see your truck?”

The man grins, it looks gritty yet genuine. “Sure thing,” he promises, leading Elio with a firm grip towards the gas station’s parking lot across the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sooooon!!!! <3


	7. These changes ain't changing me.

The trucker’s breath smells like a sub, or any nasty sandwich that has onion in it. Elio attempts to shorten his air intakes and tuck his head to the other side but it’s no use. Every time the dude’s soft, fat gut applies all its weight on the small dip of his back Elio’s breathless.

Trucker guy’s groans are clamoring around him, bouncing like an echo off the narrow space of his Sleeper Cab, overwhelming Elio with every sensation, every reminder of-

His hand is knotted in Elio’s hair, pulling and pulling. His grip on Elio's hip too digging and forceful. The smack of hips against his bony ass feels like-

_Tony_

Elio blinks back tears, screwing his lids shut till they wrinkle tightly. He presses his cheek down, biting at the sweat scented maroon mattress beneath him to hold back from vomiting.

“Yeah, so fuckin’ tight,” the trucker chides, his thrusts getting erratic. It’d be horribly painful if he had a bigger cock, thankfully he’s nothing more than five fat inches.

Elio’s nail dig till he hears fabric on the verge of ripping in his ears.

He breathes hard, sharp through his clenched teeth. The intense need to vomit getting violent in his chest.

“Tell me you’re a fucking whore.”

Elio’s tortured with the image of Oliver.

Oliver saying the same thing to him, in his nice car with his nice eyes.

_You’re acting like a dumb whore_

Elio retches, once, twice, in time with the nameless trucker’s thrusts.

He pukes all over the cotton bedspread, it soaking into the mattress and warming grossly on his cheek. His thin legs shake just like the bob of his throat, he sobs openly, loud and ashamed.

“Fuck,” the trucker says gruffly in disgust, pulling out without any softness to it.

He shoves Elio’s legs closed, forcing him onto his back. Elio tears blur out the vision of him for now, he shivers at what’s to come.

“You dirty fucking bitch, you puked on my fucking bed!” he hisses, through the blur Elio can see his fist shaking.

Elio barely recoils, hair messy in his own vomit as he’s punched, head whipping from right to a flat left.

“I’m sorry!” he yelps, raising his shaking arms in time to cover his face from any more incoming hits.

The trucker spits on him, slimily catching across his chin and down his rib bared heaving chest.

“You’re not getting paid bitch,” he promises through gritted teeth.

Elio feels numb.

He’s pulled up by his hair, “stop!” he screams, wild eyed and immediately grasping with both hands at the man’s thick wrist to avoid his follicles from being ripped out.

He’s forced through the driver’s seat, kicked out the door the second the douche can fling it open.

At last second his eyes focus on a little dangling piece, a necklace. Homemade it seems, a clear framed image of the trucker and a little girl, his daughter Elio supposes, hung from a cheap metal jewelry ball chain.

It lingers in his eyes as he falls flat on his back, just inches from where the concrete meets the small land of decorative grass.

His skin ices in the cold nipping air.

His clothes are thrown directly at his face.

He doesn’t get up until he hears the ignition rev, the fume of smoke blow in the breeze.

-

He sobs at his shitty little table.

He holds his knotty, vomit scented hair in his grip, holding his head like it’ll keep what’s destroying inside together.

His nose is snotty, slick and runny. He’s coughing up phlegm and he just feels like dying.

He thuds his head down, harsh and sudden against the crinkled newspaper he doesn’t read.

-

Inside Lucia’s Café looks a bit different. They’re in mid-remodel state, half of the drywall unfinished with its new popping amethyst wall color, the accent wall behind the counters painted a seaweed shade of green. It’s odd color choice but homey all at once, it reminds him of an herbal shop.

His head is low, his hair is freshly washed with the smell of cheap shampoo, he appreciates the sharp difference between the earlier feeling of it.

“Do you want another bagel, hun?” Ms. Geminieve asks him, she’s bubbly. Her hair is chopped in sharp lines, the ends trimmed and her bangs short. She dyed it a midnight black, it revives her in a way that’s dazzling.

He shakes his head, “no thanks, I really really am loving your hair, though” he compliments with a genuine smile. She’s like a long lost relative, or the closest person he has here, which sounds totally pathetic.

“Oh stop it,” she laughs, “if you like it so much I’ll buy you a wig like it.”

He grins even though his chest has a gnawing hole in it. Oh the little moments.

“I’d like that,” he says, watching her turn with a smile and a shake to her hips.

The door makes a soft exhale as wind gusts through it, he doesn’t look back but his hopes clamor in his head for it to be Oliver.

It’s soft, heart pacing seconds that pressure Elio not to get his hopes up, to not look back because there’s a ninety nine percent chance it won’t be Oliver and it’ll just be a let down.

There are voices at the counter, a mixture between the usual drunk guy Lenny and the waitress, swift, slurred compliments about her curves, her typical uncomfortable ‘I have to be nice to you’ voice is on.

Elio huddles closer to his the warmth of his coffee mug, feeling more alone than ever.

In moments like this he genuinely aches to be back in Tommy’s arms, to have those sluggish, drugged up kisses again. To fuck someone like he loves them, he fucking loved him.

He sighs, heart fucked up in his chest just like his swollen cheek.

He had looked in the mirror once he gotten home earlier, saw the redness and just cried in defeat. He’s tired of being beaten like a dog that doesn’t deserve life. The United States have done nothing but turn a golden boy into a forgotten lost child. He used to be so ambitious until Tommy scooped him off on their scummy style of eloping.

“I’ll just take a black coffee, no sugar, thanks.”

The voice is strikingly Oliver.

He turns his head. A gasp lodging in his throat at the sight of Oliver in something so casual.

He’s not adorned in standard work attire but instead a loose grey sweater and fitted oak slacks, he looks mouthwateringly like a tired father. The flips inside Elio’s gut at the sight make him want to overthink his priorities.

Oliver catches his eye and there’s something there. Something so pressuring that Elio has to whip his head away, hunch over the thin table with his heart leaping in his ears.

He sips his sugared coffee fast, burning his tongue and fingertips but it doesn’t sting as harshly as the redness in his cheeks.

“Elio.”

It’s a soft but firm tap on the shoulder.

He tries to be casual, as monotonous as possible.

“Yes?” he blinks, false innocence on a sexually motivated bruised face, classy.

“Can I have you tonight?” It’s bleak, completely straight to the point as Oliver proposes the offer, a faint smile catching on one side of his mouth. The rub of his rough fingertips against Elio’s risen collarbone has him short of breath.

Lips bitten and quivering, Elio swallows, “yes, of course,” he smirks, trying to be sleazy when all he really wants to do is be held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SOOOO SORRY FOR THE HIATUS, BUT THIS STORY IS BACK ON TRACK!!! MORE SOON <3


	8. Have me.

“You ever been here?”

Oliver asks, looking over the wide expanse of the Hudson River.

Elio tongue got numb earlier, once he realized where Oliver was taking him.

They’re pulled up, right low near the right side of the George Washington Bridge. Oliver’s black Bentley parked just a good twenty feet away, his ears are cold and his heart is thumping.

London Plane and Red Maple trees line the expanse of the long, long slope around the edge of the grass. The water is a pitch black abyss, all the moonlight sucked up into city light pollution.

“No,” Elio answers too quickly, “well, once, y’know but, just in passing,” he answers honestly, head low and nervously picking at a loose thread.

Oliver sighs, stretching out his legs with a pop to his knees or shoulders, maybe both.

Elio itches to do something, maybe touch his arm. Anything. There’s a fresh three individual one hundred dollars bills folded thin in his nearly empty wallet since fifteen minutes ago. Oliver didn’t mention sex but Elio counts on it regardless. He’s not a charity case that accepts money for nothing. Plus he likes the idea of pleasing Oliver with his body more than he’d openly admit.

“They use to call this Muh-he-kun-ne-tuk,” Oliver grins, his knee knocking Elio’s like a wind brush.

Elio smiles, Oliver’s making small talk. It’s nice to be treated like human instead of a fleeting warm piece of meat.

“And that means?” Elio feels like life in him to ask. An edge of giddiness reaching him that he hasn’t truly felt in a while.

“A river that flows two ways,” Oliver answers easily, head falling backwards on his shoulders to gaze up at the loving, far off stars.

Elio flips the meaning over in his head, lolling it for thought. It sounds intricately beautiful.

“Like a person who does one thing but also another,” he says out loud. He shrinks in on himself the seconds after it leaves his lips, it was unintended for Oliver’s conscious to embrace his unexamined blurting of thought.

Oliver’s silent for a second, humming softly. It settles the rise of anxiety in Elio’s chest for the moment.

“Maybe that person is faking the first thing they’re choosing to do,” Oliver whispers, his voice coming out halted in a sense. Almost gritty, like he’s thinking of something rough in particular.

Elio feels his gut clench up, feeling oddly guilty for his job as if Oliver could care enough to be referring to him. It’s stupid.

He coughs awkwardly, biting his sleeve’s loose hem of the wrist. He feels out of place not being uncomfortably on his bony knees with his mouth stuffed.

“So do you want to-?”

He leaves the question hanging. Like it’s a choice and not just a customer he’s dealing with.

He wants to, for Oliver.

Oliver shakes his head, laughing.

“No, well, can I just have you for a moment?”

Elio smiles, lopsided and real. He surely hopes every ounce of bubbly teenage boy is hidden from his cheeks but he believes he’s failing miserably.

“You have me.”

He lets the words fall too freely, too honestly. Oliver’s eyes flash with a change, something warm but surprised etching into his pupils. Elio feels it high in his chest, deep in his bones.

Oliver’s hand reaches out to graze, just two fingers dip under Elio’s chin, nubs digging in and holding the soft nob of it firmly.

“It’s there tonight,” Oliver rasps, his eyes unmoving. It’s too determined. It reminds Elio of a serpent’s stare.

He laughs breathlessly, airily with a soft sense of confusion.

“What is?” he smiles, teeth glinting in the cold wind and all, moonlight beating down on tusk white skin.

“Your eyes,” Oliver grins, “it’s there.”

He burns inside immediately at Oliver revelation.

Red cheeks taking over and flushed, blushy anxiety taking over, Elio stutters out “what do you mean?”

He looks away, pretending to care about the soft sloshing of onyx waves bouncing off the rail.

“The light, it’s usually never there,” Oliver tells him, every word pressuring a bruise on Elio’s heart.

His throat goes dry, his fingers twitch and he grasping the back of Oliver’s hair in a hurried, slutty kiss. It’s a sloppy, moaning slide of wet tongues. It’s all the language Elio can talk right now. He’s hurt too deep to confront it. It’s too soon, never late enough and he’s never ready.

_Not right now_

_Not right now_

-

They were going to do this in Oliver’s car, but Oliver’s legs were too long and Elio’s breaths too hot and his hands too clammy to get comfortable so they opted for the simpler yet more dangerous route.

They’re spread out on the blanket. Oliver’s huge blue comforter that he pulled out from god knows where and Elio’s still warm even in the cold of the air.

Oliver has his cheek in grip, other palm smoothing up under his pushed up too high thigh. They’re-

They’re about to fuck.

Elio’s sure.

He can read all the signs.

Oliver’s wanting, hungry grasps, in his hair, pressed down on his throat, rising on his inner thigh. The twisting of his hips, searching for sweet, heated purchase at the core of Elio’s legs.

Elio’s rubbing him through his brown slacks, mouth lolled and surprisingly not feeling like a consenting fuckdoll but actually wanting this.

The shape and length of it makes him shudder internally, his hole clench and his mouth water.

“Come on,” he gasps, applying more pressure, splaying his legs further, pushing his point to be obvious.

Oliver groans, eyes shutting tight and frowning as he threads his fingers in Elio’s locks, pulling away.

Elio stills his hand movement, leaning up onto his elbows instead.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, trying to sound casual and not hurt.

Oliver sighs, letting go of the contact.

“I’m not going to fuck you here.”

Elio’s quick to argue that, “but I- it’s not a big deal. I’m not picky.”

Oliver sighs again, more frustrated this time. He stands quickly.

He seems to tower over Elio from this position, like a blur with all the tall buildings glistening behind him and the wet rejection blurring Elio’s eyes.

“Maybe you should be.”

-

He gets dropped off with the money still safe in his wallet, confusion and sad little boy eyes resting on his face.

He feels unwanted.

It’s ultimately one hundred perfect worse than if Oliver had chose to fuck him roughly, without mercy or care. At least Elio wouldn’t feel so damn physically abandoned.


	9. Wistful thinking.

_Bright white moonlight burns it’s molten white orb like nature down on him. Stark against the black it beads down on his eyes like fire._

_His vision blurs, swims, comes to._

_It’s him._

_He feels it. All around, inside him, clogging up the words- screams he wants to let fall from his too tight throat._

_Help_

_Help_

_He wants to scream it. Strangle out the words till his vocal cords shrivel from the pitch._

_He feels hands crawl all over his hips, the deadliness of those hands resembling a snake._

_He’s on a rough surface, his back supported by thin, smelly cotton. His lip trembling as he sobs silently,_

_Get off_

_Stop!_

_Please_

_The words swim in his head, sinking into abyss like water circling down a drain._

_His face is slowly unblurring, brown eyes, brown eyes.._

He wakes up with a gasp. Heavy inhales racking his throat, filling his chest alongside the panic living in his heartbeat.

“Fuck,” he rasps, clutching his chest, the constant, racing thud of his pulse pressing against the flat of his palm.

He plays it over in his head. He knows what it means and he knows who he was dreaming about.

He tries to pretend he was thinking of Tommy instead.

Elio huffs an exhausted breath, rubs his face with a yawn and sits up, adjusting his posture and stretching his shoulders till they make an audible pop.

The sun’s gone and his mind is drenched in a nasty black oozing goo, A rot that wants to eat him whole.

Moonlight cascades beams of faint light through his half open blinds. The cityscape looking like usual through the slim amount of it he can see. The woman with the bad son who pegs rocks at cars is up, orange light glowing through a curtain covered window. The man who stares across at him every time Elio smokes his cigarettes on his rail balcony is turning on his feet, climbing back through his own window. Elio considers it a win, he likes basking in his thoughts and cigarette smoke in peace.

He swallows, feeling his stomach grumble. He flails the sheets for his pack, smacking the cotton blanket till it gives a plastic crinkle sound.

Elio’s lip twitches, addiction rumbling in his veins for something harder. He wants a molly or an xannie.

He wants to be numb.

Maybe in Tommy’s embrace, they’d smoke twenty cigarettes and fuck till dawn. Tommy would start with hurried, rushed bruising sex till it turns to a hazy, near blacking out fuck. Elio remembers all the times Tommy would pass out on his chest during sex, still inside Elio and his hand still pressed firmly at the dip of his throat. Sometimes he’d pass out too, molly running his brain and his fingers buzzing, he’d feel on fire in the best way. Tommy always told him molly made him feel like a king.

_“A king huh?” Elio laughs, slurred and voice soft, fucked out from the deep throat he’d given Tommy five minutes prior._

_Tommy nodded, five seconds too late and with a crooked smirk, his eyes were dark, the irises and the bags decorating them. He had a cut on his brow about an inch long, clear proof of the fact that some dealers don’t like waiting an extra day on a front. He laughed when he got home and told Elio about it, grin smearing against his cheeks and a blazed look in his eye, Elio immediately had dabbed the blood with a clean sock._

_“A fucking king,” Tommy agreed, head tipped back and smoke bellowing from his throat. Tommy liked Black and Milds. Elio liked them sometimes, they made his chest sweetly warm and scented of artificial raspberry._

_Elio grinned, a tad less higher than him but alleviated more in his chest. He loved a blissful Tommy, even if that meant Tommy had to be high off his ass._

_“I love you.”_

_Tommy puffed deeper, coughing as it burned his chest too much. He took a swig of his rum toned O & J apple liquor and smiled at the ceiling in thought._

_Tilting his head back up, he watched Elio from under his lashes, his upturned nose and gaze reminding Elio of River Phoenix’s charm._

_“You love me enough for me to be your king?” Tommy asked, his tone low and serious, like somehow the question actually makes perfect sense._

_Elio, understanding, whispers “absolutely.”_

The memory burns in his soul, turning his small fluttery butterflies into wrinkled corpses. It’s bittersweet, tasting more sharp than honey-like.

He thinks about Oliver. He wishes he’d have just tried to cuddle him, curl up and hide in his huge torso. Let Oliver take him under his wings, be his savior.

It seems all too much fantasy, unlike real life in anyway.

Oliver may be sweet sometimes but Elio’s been trying to prepare for the inevitable let down, the resignment of accepting that Oliver won’t be much different than every other John that took interest to Elio’s thighs.

Just another John, Elio thinks with tired eyes.

-

He curls in his sleeves, firecracker t-shirt lying beneath. His teeth chatter even though it’s not that cold. He skipped his usual toast and is accepting a bare stomach for now.

His rent is coming up and he’s two hundred dollars short.

He opens his lips and bares a smile to the lingering men in their forties, their hair oiled and their stereotypical black suits tidy. He’s on 28th street. A dazzling Ritz hotel discoing the strip with its vegas-esque skylights.

He’s going to make some money tonight. He pretends that he isn’t hoping wistfully to see a particular  set of steady shoulders somewhere in the crowd.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know how your thoughts please, it's helps motivate me! <3 thank you and hope you enjoy! <3


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